


they're sorry for things they can't and won't feel sorry for

by r1ker



Category: The Fate of the Furious (2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 18:19:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10668171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker
Summary: just a heads up i haven't seen this movie but i've been sucked into a gay vortex so shoutout to the twitter squad for giving me what they could to make this happen





	they're sorry for things they can't and won't feel sorry for

**Author's Note:**

> just a heads up i haven't seen this movie but i've been sucked into a gay vortex so shoutout to the twitter squad for giving me what they could to make this happen

From a bird's eye point of view, the dinner set-up, the ensemble gathering around the feast, looks almost picturesque. The guests are from all walks of life with each one of their paths converging at some blessed or cursed crossroads to bring them all together tonight. Luke is a little bit dumbstruck by Deckard at his side, dutifully passing around bowls and platters like everything that had transpired earlier was but an unfortunate circumstance for them both. Later on in the meal, Deckard looks at him over a handful of paper towels and mouths something along the lines of _what's the matter with you?_ The question never gets answered.

 

In comparison to the rest of the gathering dessert's a more low-key affair, each of the different familial factions splitting at their assumed borders to reconvene elsewhere for shared, private conversation. Luke and Deckard sit side by side still at the empty table with melting bowls of something sweet in front of them, crooked spoons untouched. Finally, when the urge to speak is too much to hold back and Luke thinks he might implode from the sheer force of being caught between wanting to beat the shit out of him and fuck him into the queen-sized mattress in the guest room, he says, "I'm glad you're not dead."

 

Deckard answers him past a mouthful of cake, "Me too. Hell of a mess to clean up for whoever was stuck behind to take care of it." The temptation to whack him upside the head begins to win out in Luke's mind. They'd both come too far to have it end at that, some spaghetti western ending with the partners at odds with each other left without a solution to an unspoken problem. It wasn't really the second chance either of them had perhaps wished for but it's a hard reset to a complex game. Better than nothing.

 

Luke turns to look at him after the quip. He's a sight in the foreground of cheap porch tiki lamps, face twisted at the poor choice of chasing his confection with cheap beer. That earns him a laugh as well and Deckard sticks his tongue out, offering Luke a sip. Luke does as he's told and shudders at the combination of icing and hops and sets it back down on the table in a far distance from them both. The rest of the celebration carries out, as it is wont to do as people come down from the highs of securing great personal victories. As they do Luke and Deckard get (mildly) drunk, inebriated enough to go for seconds on dessert and swap spoonfuls like newlyweds.

 

The night threatens to break into the new day when they finally stumble inside to the adjoining guesthouse. Footing and sense of balance are lost to the alcohol and lack of light but somehow they end up together again on the L-shaped sofa vivisecting the den. Luke can feel Deckard on top of him, heavy as a horse and solid as a rock, alive and breathing and so perfectly warm. He'd had visions of what it would have been like to drag a cold body back to wherever they'd have ended up after Cipher was taken care of. That makes his hands clench into his pants and Deckard takes note with his. One of them finds their way into Luke's.

 

"If it makes you feel any better," Deckard whispers like their conversation is at risk of being thwarted by hostile eavesdroppers, "the bullets hitting the vest hurt like a motherfucker. Looks like I had gone a few rounds with a pellet gun once I got back to a safe spot." Luke wants so desperately to look, see the damage for himself, but he tamps that down in favor of savoring the solidarity Deckard gives him with his head on Luke's shoulder. "I still can't laugh without aching." After that it's quiet and Luke begins to lose the fight he'd been silently waging with the exhaustion making his shoulders hurt. He still holds onto Deckard like the both of them are at risk of death if they drifted away too soon.

 

Before he can even think about rest Luke feels lips just below his jawline, not provocative in the slightest, a sleepy little gesture of affection Deckard gives him before falling asleep. Luke rouses himself long enough to move the festival into the bedroom, divesting Deckard of his shoes and socks before lofting him gently onto the bed. He loses his own shirt and climbs in for the long haul, enjoying a little too much how Deckard huddles up to him in spite of the lofty comforter on the mattress.

 

The sun isn't even up when Luke feels a draft settle in. The body next to him has gone to parts unknown and he's just about ready to dart out of the bedclothes and go to hunting for him until Deckard emerges entirely nude, a little shy with both hands modestly arranged in front of his groin as he pads towards the bed. A suspicious envelope of lubricant is between two of his fingers and Luke's never been one to take a lifetime to connect dots imperceptibly close.

 

What follows next is a silently agreed-upon arrangement. Luke sits up in the bed like he's being controlled by strings fed through the ceiling tiles, spreads his legs enough to welcome again the weight of Deckard against him, the heady smell of him almost too much to bear.

 

Finally, finally, they kiss and it's a little anticlimactic for how their necks ache at having to crane at different angles to compensate for the height difference. Still Luke doesn't lose sight of the mission at hand and cups the back of Deckard's neck like he'd do anyone else he was entirely enamored with. He feels Deckard's hands moving beneath himself, opening himself up as quickly and efficiently as someone with shaky hands can given the circumstances.

 

Luke breathes steady through it all, even as Deckard finishes and rears up on one hand braced on the headboard only to sink down onto Luke's cock. The way he gasps is something Luke wishes he could harness for later enjoyment, his belly shuddering with an uneven breath as he begins to fuck himself. As soon as it begins the tempo pulls a 180, Deckard folding his fingers carefully out of the impact area of the headboard as it begins to shove against the wall. They don't say a word to each other but communicate what they must with eager grabs of unoccupied hands. Luke loses himself in kissing the upper parts of his shoulders, down Deckard's arms to keep this going for as long as they both can take it.

 

The wood to the headboard lasts as long as a cheap furniture store display clone can last and splinters down the middle with a sad sounding crack as Deckard nears his orgasm. Luke can tell the latter pretty damn well by how Deckard rears up on both hands, knees trembling and gasps high in his throat as the warm tingle crawls up his spine from the soles of his feet. His knees slide futilely against the rumpled sheets and swaying bed, a threat to the integrity of their place. The gesture is no match for the lower half of the structure supporting the area above their heads and it too buckles with a sound that makes Luke fear for their immediate safety. Soon the impending doom of a shower of wood splinters fades as Deckard finally comes, softening at the edges like he's being held above an open flame. Luke isn't too far behind as it is, and pulls Deckard to him tight as he does so, too.

 

After, it's no different than last night at dinner. Both of them are perhaps a bit closer to each other than in their wicker lawn chairs, and maybe Deckard's redressed in Luke's clothes with the soundtrack to _Camelot_ playing in the corner where his phone's hooked up to charge. It's strange in the short instance Luke takes to absorb each detail he would have previously have found bizarre, but when Deckard lies back down next to him mumbling, _it's true! It's true! The crown has made it clear. The weather must be perfect…all the year._ It's all Luke could have asked for out of the last mission he'd have to endure at odds with Deckard Shaw.


End file.
